


Desire

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Light Smut, Romance, Side Story, baby elflings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Challenging myself to write romance!Thranduil think it's time for the next step of their marriage...set in SA 1198This is in the Dwelf-'Verse, but almost a century before the birth of the Dwelf herself.





	Desire

He watched her silently, standing in the diffuse morning light, her thin robe revealing her lovely figure, backlit by the soft rays of a new day dawning. The light played in her crimson tresses, dappled with the shades of the leaves outside their windows.

He had been woken earlier, but made no moves to disturb the peaceful scene. Her half-standing, half-seated position in the deep frame of the window meant he could see the small brown head resting in the crook of her arm, the small hand wrapping tinier fingers around a lock of her hair, as he often found himself doing, playing with the sleek softness. He could not see her face, but when she turned, he pretended sleep once more, letting her escape from their bedroom with her small burden.

“I did not like the way you looked holding little Emliniel,” he told her, when she returned, having taken her place by the window, looking at the riot of colour that was _firien_ in the vast Woodland Realm of his Adar. He did not need to look at her to know that he had sparked her temper. “It was wrong,” he continued evenly, listening to the feisty breath she inhaled before she would scold him for his callous words. He did not let her. In a swift and powerful move, he moved to her, stealing her irate words – the elfling was the daughter of her friend – in a kiss. Pressing her body against the wall he nibbled at her lips softly, by now familiar with what she enjoyed most, until she stopped trying to bit him.

“And what,” even breathless and lustful, her voice carried a sting of anger, “was wrong about it?”

“It was not my elfling, our daughter – or son – and the brown hair should have been your red,” he whispered, feeling her melt in his arms as he trailed kisses down the pale column of her neck.

“Hwin…” she moaned softly, her strong fingers no longer pushing him away, but clutching him tighter. Lifting her lithe form, he carried his wife to bed, amidst a torrent of needy kisses. Sliding his knee onto the soft mattress first, he was lost once more in the taste of her, simply holding her there, her long legs wrapped around his waist as he knelt on the bed. “You should not tease me, hervenn,” she purred, sliding her hands over his shoulders and running them underneath his shirt, seeking bare skin. Squeezing her bottom, he put her down before him, surveying the pale expanse of skin her splayed robe revealed.

“My Nínimeth,” he whispered, almost reverently. With a smile, she beckoned him closer, pulling his long blonde hair when he did not come to her quickly enough for her liking. He chuckled. “My Lady is a greedy one,” he teased her, but he went willingly. Trailing kisses from her collarbone to her breast, leaving a darkened line of wetness on the pale green fabric that covered the rest of her, he paused, running his tongue around a swiftly tautening peak. “Is that a yes?” he asked, when she moaned softly, tilting her hips up to meet the thrusts he had not even been aware he was making.

“Yes?” His fingers, so clever and nimble, had undone her robe, snaking inside the folds of fabric to part the folds of her, rubbing torturously against her dew-dripping centre.

Hwiniedir – or Thranduil, to most who knew him – chuckled against her chest, making his wife pinch his arm. “I wish to make an elfling with you, beloved,” he murmured into her skin. “If you will give me the joy of it.”

“Of course, I’ll give you the joy of it!” he looked up, hopeful, to catch her smirking down at him. “Though I expect you to give _me_ joy of it too!” she laughed, but the earnest desire in her eyes made him surge up to claim her mouth in a deep kiss. “Yes, Hwin, we will make an elfling,” she sighed, smiling when he let her lips go. “Together.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Queen was, as usual, the first to know. Nenglessel had a touch of foresight, but it had only confirmed what she had already suspected, seeing the quiet joy on her good-daughter’s face.

“He will be a powerful Prince,” she whispered, during evening meal one night, making Nínimeth knock over her wine goblet in surprise.

“My-my Queen?” The younger elleth stuttered.

“Your son, dearest,” the Queen chuckled, keeping her voice low. “I will wait for the official announcement, but – and I’m sure if your Naneth was here, she would, too – I can see it in you: the growing of new life.” Smiling gently, the Queen of the Woodland Realm watched the Silvan elleth leave the Royal table, a deep blush staining her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

“Your Naneth knows!” Nínimeth screeched at her husband, when he entered their shared bedroom later that evening.

“About…” he trailed off, looking at her searchingly, where she paced back and forth across the floor. This was not the home-coming he had expected, returning from several weeks of hunting, truth be told, having hoped for less shrillness and more gentle loving than currently seemed on offer.

“…” Throwing herself at him, Nínimeth could not keep tears from filling her eyes, hiccupping a sob into his shoulder.

“Hush, beloved, what ails you?” he whispered, beginning to worry. Nínimeth simply shook her head, soaking up the warmth of his arms around her.

“Ai, Hwin,” she mumbled, laughter suddenly bubbling up. “I have not told anyone, not even you, and tonight, your Naneth told me she knows.” She giggled. Looking up to catch the confusion in his face, Nínimeth grasped Thranduil’s hand, bringing it slowly to rest, low on her stomach. “I am bearing,” she whispered, confirming the realisation growing in his eyes, returning the smile on his face.

“Truly?” he whispered, stroking gently across the skin that would not yet show the secret it hid. Nínimeth nodded.

“We are to have a son, meleth-nîn,” she replied, shakily. A single tear ran down her cheek. Thranduil frowned.

“You are unhappy with this?” he asked, worry slicing through his own sense of wonder like shards of ice. Nínimeth shook her head. Kneeling before her, he gently parted her robe, the same thin one she had worn so many moons before when he had watched her with Emliniel, and pressed his face against her skin.

“No, beloved,” she whispered, sliding her hand into his hair and running her fingers across his ears. Thranduil sighed. “But I wanted you to know first, not Nenglessel,” she sighed. Thranduil chuckled lightly against her skin, pressing a kiss below her navel.

“Then I am sorry I have been gone from your side, meleth, but I shall act so foolishly no longer. You will be tired of my company with all the time I will be beside you from this moment forth,” he threatened playfully, making her laugh.

“Perhaps I will forgive you,” she mused, “if you make better use of your mouth than spouting idle threats.” Widening her stance slightly, she pushed his face a little lower. Her breath caught, when his tongue did her bidding, and she moaned when he pushed one of her legs over his shoulder. Her hands clenching fists in his hair as she regained her balance made him groan against her core with the pleasure-pain of her nails against his skull. Picking her up, unheeding her shrieks of laughter when he threw her onto their bed, Thranduil returned to his appointed penance with alacrity.

 

 


End file.
